The day St Marguerite was shelled one of the two brigadiers determined to shift his headquarters to a certain farm.  N’Soon and Grimers were attached to the brigade at the time.  “Headquarters” came to the corner.  N’Soon and Grimers were riding slowly in front.  They heard a shell coming.  Grimers flung himself off his bicycle and dropped like a stone.  N’Soon opened his throttle and darted forward, foolishly.  The shell exploded.  Grimers’ bicycle was covered with branches and he with earth and dust.  N’Soon for some reason was not touched.

The General and his staff were shelled nearly the whole way to the farm, but nobody was hit.  The brigade veterinary officer had a theory that the safest place was next the General, because generals were rarely hit, but that day his faith was shaken, and the next day—­I will tell you the story—­it tottered to destruction.

I had come through St Marguerite the night after the brigade had moved.  Of course I was riding without a light.  I rounded Hell’s Own Corner carefully, very frightened of the noise my engine was making.  A little farther on I dismounted and stumbled to the postern-gate of a farm.  I opened it and went in.  A sentry challenged me in a whisper and handed me over to an orderly, who led me over the black bodies of men sleeping to a lean-to where the General sat with a sheltered light, talking to his staff.  He was tired and anxious.  I delivered my despatch, took the receipted envelope and stumbled back to the postern-gate.  Silently I hauled my motor-cycle inside, then started on my tramp to the General who had moved.

After Hell’s Own Corner the road swings round again to the east, and runs along the foot of the Chivres hill to Missy.  A field or so away to the left is a thick wood inhabited for the most part by German snipers.  In the preceding days N’Soon and Sadders had done fine work along this road in broad daylight, carrying despatches to Missy.

I was walking, because no motor-cyclist goes by night to a battalion, and the noise of a motor-cycle would have advertised the presence of brigade headquarters somewhere on the road.  It was a joyous tramp of two miles into the village of dark, ominous houses.  I found a weary subaltern who put me on my way, a pitch-black lane between high walls.  At the bottom of it I stepped upon an officer, who lay across the path asleep with his men.  So tired was he that he did not wake.  On over a field to the farm.  I delivered my despatch to the Brigade-Major, whose eyes were glazed with want of sleep.  He spoke to me in the pitiful monotone of the unutterably weary.  I fed off bully, hot potatoes, bread and honey, then turned in.

In the morning I had just finished my breakfast when a shell exploded fifty yards behind the farm, and others followed.  “Headquarters” turned out, and we crawled along a shallow ditch at the side of a rough country road until we were two hundred yards from the farm.  We endeavoured to get into communication with the other brigade by flag, but after the first message a shell dropped among the farther signallers and we saw no more of them.